Time Limit
by Sarimia
Summary: Rewrite of Two Months. How many lives can one sick girl affect before dying? OC-centric, AU.


**Please read the author's note at the bottom. Also note, this story focuses mainly on an original character.**

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As it is said in a well-known Supernatural episode, beginnings are easy to write.

It's the endings that get to you, that escape your grasp. You try to wrap up loose ends, make it satisfactory enough that the majority of the public will be content. The easiest ending is letting everyone die. The hardest ending is when everyone lives.

And yet despite all these difficulties, there I sat, printing off the last page. The trials were over, the adventure complete, and I sat in silence, wondering what I was going to do in what little time I had left.

That story, the one being printed, was the last thing on my bucket-list—granted, said list wasn't very long at all, but at the same time there wasn't much that I'd desperately wanted accomplished.

As the printer puttered along, I heaved myself up from the rolling chair, flicking the off button on the computer monitor. The clock in the corner of my room glowed with a bright red '2:00', and I figured it was high time I attempted sleep. It was fact that I wasn't going to be in a good mood tomorrow, not with so little rest, but I attempted anyways, fwomping onto my bedcovers and pulling my hair out of its tie, trying to get as comfortable as possible.

My prediction for the next day proved correct.

I was in a terrible, stormy mood. No one noticed—it wasn't all that remarkable, I wasn't very loud in the first place. I kept my shoulders hunched against the wave of teenagers heaving through the halls, and reflected on the sickening idea of actually going to school.

I didn't have much time left. Why was I spending it in such a horrid, lonely place?

With a hacking cough that left my throat feeling scratchy and sore, I escaped from the noise by ducking into my homeroom. Iruka-sensei was quick to inform me that if I had no protest, I would be the one to show the two new kids around school.

Well, first day of the year and already there were complications. In the first place Iruka-sensei was an incredibly fresh teacher, just out of college was my guess, and he was clearly unaware of my (almost renowned amongst the other staff) antisocial tendencies. Second was the fact that there were new kids (_new. Kids._) that would attempt to get me to talk and/or befriend me. I'd already done a fine job last year of avoiding or beating down anyone who even attempted socialization towards me.

It just made it easier, in the end, if I didn't have anyone around me. I wasn't worth that kind of care, not even in the few months I had left.

Just after the dismissal bell rang, the previously mentioned new kids sought out my desk. The first was a girl, with long dark hair, the second a ginger-haired boy that needed a lot more sleep than he was getting.

"H-Hanasu, right?" the girl stuttered out in a soft voice. I nodded to acknowledge her. "I'm, uh, H-Hinata Hy-Hyuga, nice t-t-to meet you."

I nodded again, standing and gathering my binder in my arms. I looked to the ginger boy.

"Gaara," he said in introduction.

I had a sudden appreciation for one-word sentences. He didn't appear too fond of people either, despite the 'love' tattoo on his forehead.

"U-um, will you show us a-around school?" Hinata asked.

I gave another quick nod, followed by an awkward gesture with one hand, trying to get them to hand over their schedules. Gaara understood immediately, and Hinata glanced about frantically before squeaking and pulling out her piece of paper.

The school's classes were split into four, with an hour for lunch in between. Comparing the schedules, I took quick note that Gaara and I both had Language for our first period, and Hinata had Maths.

Handing the schedules back, I slipped towards the door with a wave indicating they should follow. The Maths and Science hallway was luckily on the way to the Language and Arts hall, and I dropped Hinata off first, ignoring the stuttering 'thank you' and heading off towards my own class.

Gaara said not a word, and once we arrived to Language, he picked a random seat without hesitation or a glance in my direction.

Kakashi-sensei was the head of the Language department and our current teacher. He was nice enough, never called on me to answer questions (with a vague understanding of my condition), and was incredibly good-natured when it came to the fools of the class. He was also the only one who was even aware that I'd begun writing a story at all.

I placed the printed document from the night previous on his desk, aware that he would most definitely be late to show, and found a seat closer to the back corner of the class, where I could observe without being bothered.

Students trickled in.

I'd learned at an early age that not only is it not a good idea to judge by appearances, I seemed to lack that judgemental ability entirely. The school held a no-uniform dress code, and so people dressed as they pleased with tight ripped jeans and skin-tight t-shirts, regardless of gender. Of course, not everyone conformed to that exact standard, but the fashion occupied the majority of teenagers' wardrobes. Even I with my skirts and long shirts owned a few too-tight shirts and worn pairs of jeans.

Gaara was a befuddlement—his clothes were rather plain, no rips, unnecessary chains, or random symbols. He sat very still and silent, barely acknowledging the students that attempted to engage him in conversation. I knew I wouldn't be able to figure out the guy in just one hour, but he was rather interesting to watch.

He had a habit of tapping the eraser-bit of his pencil on his notebook paper when he found the class boring.

I didn't have a reputation.

For some teenagers, this was worse than having none at all, but in my world it was a great benefit to be invisible to the population. For example, the amount of information I could pick up just by being ignored.

A few girls in front of me—Ino and Sakura, rugby players— were talking about the newest serial killer, and that they heard he was 'hot', and a brother to one of the students at school. Killed his best friend, they said.

Kakashi handed a map of the school to Gaara.

Chouji asked Shikamaru when his parents would be back from vacation—the 16th, Shikamaru replied. I wondered if his parents always went on vacation around the first day of school and left a fifteen-year-old home alone for over ten days. What a strange habit.

When class was let out, Gaara turned to me once again with, "I have Art." He handed me his schedule and the school map.

I glanced at the name of the teacher, took note of the room number, and circled a box that represented a room on the map in red sharpie. The map itself was vague enough that it didn't even mark where the washrooms were, let alone the room numbers. I wrote in bold letters 'ART' inside the circle, then proceeded to mark down the cafeteria and the last two classes—the latter of which we shared, but I attempted to ignore that fact.

My second class of the day was, disgustingly enough, gym.

Every year, I ended up with a gym class. The school's excuse was that all the other classes were full, and they had no choice but to stick me there. I should have been excused, but even my doctor's notes were ignored, so I was forced to participate.

Participating was easier than going through an argument with the gym teacher (which involved talking), being sent to the office, going through another argument with one of the vice principals (which involved more talking) and eventually going to the principal himself (which did not so much involve talking as it did sitting and being shouted at).

I would know. I tried it last year. Ended up spending a couple hours in the hospital for straining myself.

I changed quickly and got started on the beginning laps. Mr. Halare (he was American, and thus insisted on the 'Mr' instead of 'sensei') was so obsessive-compulsive he counted every lap each student did, assuring that no one shirked on their exercises.

Which was really, really bad for me, as it usually resulted in trying to hack up a lung for my efforts. After two laps I started coughing. After three, it was difficult to breathe. By the time I was finished, my eyes were tearing up.

The laps were followed by a round of stretches followed by a game of soccer. I was sorted onto Sasuke Uchiha's team and immediately volunteered for goalie to avoid running any more.

Sasuke locked eyes with me for a split second and looked mildly puzzled, as if I were a specimen to be studied.

The game ended, and I rushed to change and clean up, desperate for my lunch hour.

I despised lunch hour.

Every other time of the day there's something to be doing, something to be focusing on. The whole entire _point _of lunch hour was free time, though, and I never really knew what to do with myself. Especially now since I was finished writing that book, I had nothing to even occupy my thoughts.

Stopping mid-pace down the hallway, I stared for half a second at the doors leading outside to my right before turning sharply and heaving the door open just enough to slip through. Keeping my walk slow to save breath, I headed to the farthest picnic table by the tree line.

It was quiet, for a lunch hour. Barely anyone passed even close enough for me to hear their muttered conversations, and after a few minutes of nibbling on bread, I found my thoughts wandering into a state of calm, the kind that comes just before naps.

I laid my head on the table.

It wasn't long before something pulled me from my rest—someone was coming closer.

Looking up, I took in the form of Tall, Dark, and Silent, Sasuke Uchiha, walking towards me.

My hands started to shake. What the hell did _he_ want?

He stopped two metres from me, just staring, not saying anything. I made a vague waving gesture telling him to get on with it, and he swallowed, trying to clear his throat.

"What are you trying to prove?" he asked me, expecting an answer in the way he waited, still and even more silent than usual. When I didn't make a sound, he sighed, dragged a hand through his hair, and said, "in gym. You're sick, aren't you?"

I held my hand up again, index finger and thumb a centimetre apart to show 'a little bit'.

I was being sarcastic through universal sign language. Imagine that.

"Then why the hell are you even in a phys-ed class?"

I shrugged.

It was clear he was getting frustrated when he hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands in his pockets. He was about to leave, straightening his posture into typical boy-band pose, when a scream erupted from a good distance away, closer to the parking lot.

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**Notes: This 'story' is a test. Go to my page, look in stories, and find the one titled "Two Months To Die". Compare this to the first chapter. I'm looking not for commentary on crappy plot or anything like that. I'm looking for critique on the improvement of my style of writing and shape of character. **

**I suppose it's a rewrite.**

**Yeah, sounds right. I'll try to shape the plot a bit too, maybe actually give this story a real one, for instance.**

**Thanks,**

**-Sarii.**


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